She Don't Lie, She Don't Lie, She Don't Lie
by regrette rien
Summary: ...Cocaine. Sherlock's had another hit, how do the Baker Street duo handle this habit? Little bit character study, little bit fun in the 1st chapter, but gets considerably darker in chapters 2&3! Chapter 4 now up, warning mentions suicidal thoughts.
1. Chapter 1

**Hello, dear readers! I'm not entirely sure what to make of this one...partly smut, partly drug use, partly character study. Essentially, I hope it is enjoyable. **

**Warnings: reference to drug use, sexual content, language. This chapter is relatively tame, but subsequent chapters are definitely darker.**

**My canon says that Sherlock and John are an established relationship, and that's what this story is operating on. Maybe one day I should do a "how they became a couple" story...but oh dear, there are a lot of story ideas clamouring to get out already, let's just try to focus on one thing at a time, shall we?**

**Reviews are welcome above all things.**

**xxRegretteRienxx**

He'd taken too much, again, he realised, as he heard the door leading to 221B close behind John, arriving home after another shift at the clinic. He knew it was John without even needing to look. Of course it was John. The tell-tale signs were numerous, and too dull to list on a conscious level. Anyway, he hadn't taken too much in regards to his level of health or tolerance to the drugs, he was far too conscientious to risk that, but he had definitely taken too much in regards to what John considered to be too much, and that was _any at all_.

There was a sigh as John surveyed the paraphernalia that Sherlock hadn't bothered to clear away yet, but there was no argument, no shouting. There was no point in arguing with an inebriate; it was an utter waste of energy. Sherlock grinned enthusiastically at his flatmate, and crossed the living room in a single bound (Well, a bound and a half, but almost a single bound. Maybe if he practised, he could make it in a single bound, how brilliant would that be? He decided to devote time to this skill, but not right now, John was here now, John was fun, John was great, he had to tell John things, show John things, do things for and with and to John, because John!), "Hello, John!" he greeted exuberantly.

"Sherlock." John replied in a careful monotone. "When did you shoot up?" He was treading on eggshells, trying to figure out what stage of the trip Sherlock was up to, trying to figure out what part of the emotional rollercoaster he had to prepare for, to contend with.

Sherlock grabbed John's hands and swung them to and fro. "When _didn't_ I shoot up, John? It was a long time ago, really! But today...ah, now...the sun was up! There were people downstairs. I don't like them. Mrs Hudson always has such dull dull dull dull guests! Why does she invite them over when they are _so_ painfully _boring_? They're just going to die soon anyway!" He stopped suddenly, and drew himself close to John's body, looking him dead in the eye. "Do you know what, John?" he whispered conspiratorially. "It's _really_ yummy, so I had seconds!" he exclaimed, and danced away again, full of energy and inspiration.

John rubbed his hand over his face in tired frustration. "Coffee." he mumbled to himself, moving towards the kitchen, praying that his – relatively tame – drug of choice would make him capable of tolerating Sherlock's hyper antics for a little while, at least. That 'seconds' comment worried him. Hopefully Sherlock was vain enough to have been careful with the injections, and an overdose was not on the cards.

"Sherlock! I have a drink for you!" John called, while he waited for the kettle to boil, and was rewarded by 6 feet of excitement galumphing into the kitchen.

"A drink?" Sherlock asked, intrigued.

"It's a new one," John explained, holding the glass out towards him. "It has no smell, no taste, no colour, just like water – but, it's _not_ water!"

Sherlock looked intently at John, pausing in his examination of the contents of the glass. "What is it, then?" he demanded, curiosity pouring out of him.

"They just call it, 'Miracle Drink'" John shrugged, his face a mask of hopelessness. "You should drink this one, and do an experiment on the next glass, to figure out what's in it!" he suggested, hoping that his voice portrayed the right level of encouragement, that Sherlock wouldn't become suspicious. Not knowing how affected the detective was made it difficult for John to know how easily he could lie to him.

Sherlock's reaction gave him a bit of a clue, however. His eyes widened joyously. "Miracle Drink..." he whispered, awed. "I _like_ experiments!" he declared, and downed the glass in one slug.

Acceptance of obviously bollocks information, and severe dehydration, John noted. Not the best state to be in, but clearly Sherlock was handling things well: he was still maintaining conversation, coordination, and was able to drink without spilling. These were relatively good signs.

Sherlock placed the empty glass on the kitchen bench absently, and wandered off again, forgetting entirely about 'Miracle Drink' and the prospective experiments, and John ignored the fact, refilling the glass with more water/'Miracle Drink', and attending to preparing his coffee, while keeping an ear out for Sherlock breaking anything.

"Sherlock?" John called out, walking through the living room. The door to the apartment hadn't been opened, so he must've gone upstairs. With any luck, to bed, but probably not.

"Sherlock?" John tried again, carefully placing his coffee on the dresser in his room. It had to cool a little before he could drink it, and he could move quicker when he wasn't trying to keep two containers of liquid from spilling.

The bathroom door was open, light spilling through, and John felt a mix of relief knowing that this was where Sherlock had vanished to, and fear at what he would find inside – there were too many dangerous objects in the bathroom to even _begin_ considering scenarios.

He needn't have worried. Sherlock was seated on the toilet, slumped over the sink, his hands and cheek pressed into the surface. What the hell? He'd only been unsupervised for a couple of minutes while John prepared his coffee! There was something covering the sink, something creamy and white and, from the overwhelming smell of the bathroom – _minty_. John couldn't help it, he laughed. Toothpaste! There was toothpaste squeezed out all over the sinktop, and Sherlock had fallen asleep in it. Oh, John was so making sure that Sherlock was cleaning this up tomorrow.

Sherlock stirred at the sound of John's laughter. "John!" he exclaimed, as though he hadn't seen the doctor in ages. He leapt up, and caught the other man in an embrace, clasping John's coat in his toothpaste-covered hands, and kissing him soundly with a 50% minty mouth. John continued laughing, and Sherlock joined in once they broke off the kiss, but John suspected that they were possibly not laughing at the same thing.

"Here, I got you a drink," he mentioned again, proffering the glass.

Sherlock's short-term memory didn't betray the familiarity of the situation. "Thanks!" he enthused, and downed it in large gulps. John took the opportunity of the distraction to grab a facecloth and wipe the toothpaste off both their faces, as well as Sherlock's hands.

Having finished the drink, Sherlock glared at the empty glass, as though it had wronged him. "John–" he began, holding the glass out, "What do I do now?" he asked in extreme consternation.

John took the glass from his hands, and placed it gently in the centre of the toothpasted sink. He clasped Sherlock's hands together, and leaned in close. "Bedtime." he whispered, with a hint of suggestion, and a great degree of 'I will not take no for an answer'.

"Oooh...!" Sherlock murmured in anticipation, gyrating his hips against John eagerly. John gave him a small peck on the lips, but moved away quickly, leading Sherlock towards his bedroom.

He ignored the coffee mug on the dresser as he walked in: change of strategy. Sherlock was clearly tired if he was falling asleep at the drop of a hat, it was just a matter of making him realise that.

John removed his coat and shoes before climbing into bed – he could figure out the rest of the clothes later. He propped a couple of pillows up against the head of the bed, and sat down leaning against them, his legs straight out in front of him. Sherlock clambered into his lap, intentions absolutely clear, although his messy kisses and erratically grabbing hands were a little less easy to follow. He plucked at John's clothes, but didn't actually succeed in undoing anything, nor managing any arousing strokes. John responded with slow kisses, and firm motions, guiding Sherlock's body, and eventually manipulated him so that he was reclined against John's body, Sherlock's back against John's chest. Sherlock was still breathing quickly with arousal, but was beginning to calm under the influence of John's calming, slow, movements, and the ever-reliable forgetfulness that came with the high.

"We are _so_ getting you checked into rehab," John murmured, thinking aloud, and instantly regretted it. Sherlock tensed. The words had clicked him into a new emotional phase.

"Do you know _why _rehabilitation treatments are never 100% effective on the patients, John?" Sherlock asked softly, his voice dripping with menace.

John shivered, though he knew Sherlock's anger wasn't directed at him. "Why's that?" he whispered, trying to keep the interaction emotionally neutral, and not send Sherlock spiralling off into an emotional outburst. It really was just time to sleep now.

"They keep checking it on rats and mice – experimenting and studying – it's all with the wrong animals!" Sherlock was gesticulating to emphasise his point, and the frustration he felt with the scientific community, the world as a whole. John couldn't see the detective's expression in the darkened room, as he'd left the lights in his room switched off to reduce stimulation, but the motion of Sherlock's body where John was holding him against his chest was unmistakable. The man was clearly highly agitated.

"Sherlock, lab rats and mice have been proven to have approximately 85% matching DNA to humans," John murmured, gently rubbing Sherlock's far-too-tense trapezius muscle. "Besides, it wouldn't be ethical to conduct that sort of experimentation on humans." he pointed out.

Sherlock sighed, but in frustration, not relaxation, John noted. "Ethics. Ethics is boring. There are that many _"unethical"_" – the disdain was only too obvious in the way Sherlock pronounced the word, "activities occurring in the world every minute of every day, both sanctioned and unsanctioned. What difference does it make if a few more occur? Particularly if they're for the apparent betterment of mankind. Do you know how many cases I would not have been capable of solving if I hadn't conducted some supposedly "unethical" research beforehand? Besides, there are plenty of people out there who would be willing to abuse their bodies and partake in drug trials purely for the financial reward or whatever other paltry motivations can be conceived. Why not just do it? Don't scientists want to _know_? Don't they have _any_ urge to _find the answers_?"

Sherlock was getting riled up again, and began pulling out of John's grasp, as though he were going to head out and find some scientists straight away, and command them to conduct their research differently. On himself, most likely.

"Uh-uh." John negated the movement, wrapping his arms around Sherlock's chest, and twisting his ankles around Sherlock's calves. If Sherlock wanted to stand now, he'd have a hell of a piggy-back accompanist – a military-trained one. The fact that they were reclining on the bed was an added bonus to John's mission – Sherlock couldn't gain the leverage to stand now, with John clasped on to him, and leaning backwards.

They struggled for a couple of minutes, it was terribly inelegant, and completely unlike Sherlock's usual smooth, coordinated movements, which usually led to people questioning whether the detective was a dancer in a past life.

Sherlock gave up shortly, and lay back with a huff. "You are _most_ obnoxious, John," he pointed out petulantly, but his body was relaxed, as though he was no longer interested in getting out of the bed. John refused to trust this indication, and though he slackened his arms, did not unfasten his hands from their monkey-grip in the centre of Sherlock's chest.

His instinct proved to be right, momentarily, when Sherlock made a start, and attempted to dart out of John's embrace again. John was jerked upwards slightly this time, caught up in the momentum, but his arms didn't separate, meaning that he was still able to garner some control over the situation. He tipped his weight sideways, sending them sprawling over the bed, and now Sherlock had tangled bedcovers to contend with as well as John. Neither of which were likely to give up anytime soon.

Sherlock whined at the defeat, an honest sound this time, despondency emanating from his entire being.

John allowed himself a small smile of triumph, but shushed Sherlock comfortingly, letting go with one hand to run his fingers through the other man's wild hair. "Settle down, now...you need to have some rest, okay?"

Sulkily, Sherlock continued to protest, "You're not _fair_, John. I want..." he trailed off, seemingly incapable of identifying what exactly his scattered intentions were.

"You're _high_, Sherlock," John pointed out. "Think about it, you're wanting to go off in the middle of the night and recruit a whole bunch of people as lab rats!"

Sherlock giggled at this – it rapidly escalated into hilarity, and John couldn't help but join in with the glee, although not to the same manic degree. "Little mousey lab rat people!" Sherlock gasped out. "Squeak squeak!" he did a ridiculous impression, and now John really did laugh. Oh god, if only he was able to record the crazy, squeaking detective right now – he'd probably swear right off drugs, he hated to be anything but the personification of dignified.

"Do you know who looks like a mousey lab rat person, John?" Sherlock demanded, and John took a deep breath to compose himself, wiping tears from his eyes.

"Who?" he asked.

"Lestrade!" Sherlock declared triumphantly, and descended into another fit of giggles.

John cracked up. Oh no, now he was going to have that image in his mind the next time he saw the detective inspector, and it was going to be absolutely _torturous_ not to laugh. _For fuck's sake, Sherlock, the things you make me deal with..._

"Okay, okay..." John soothed, as Sherlock's laughing fit died down. "Going to sleep now, yeah?"

Sherlock yawned and spoke at the same time, making his words completely indecipherable.

"What was that, Sherlock?" John prompted.

"Said, 'I'm not tired,'" Sherlock explained, snuggling into John's chest.

John rolled his eyes. How this man was the world's most brilliant detective and yet such a child, he would never understand.

They shifted together on the bed for a moment, while John rearranged himself so that he was lying down, not propped up against the headboard, and so that he wasn't partly trapped under Sherlock's body. Finally, they settled, lying on their sides facing each other: John lying on his right side, and Sherlock lying on his left. Their free arms reached over each other's waist, holding the other close, legs tangled together. Sherlock sighed contentedly, and his breath tickled John's hair, who chuckled gently, enjoying the familiar sensation of Sherlock's heartbeat, perceptible against his own chest. It was reassuring, calming, and a regular beat. The doctor part of John put to rest any concerns that Sherlock was going to have an adverse reaction to the drugs tonight.


	2. Chapter 2

**Pointless A/N is pointless: I realised after originally posting this chapter, that this is the second story I've written with John walking around pantsless but wearing a shirt. I'm not sure exactly what the significance of that is... NO APOLOGIES for inflicting the mental image of Martin Freeman's version of John Watson's bare bum (etc.) on you all! XD**

**xxRegretteRienxx**

Reassured and comfortable, John began drifting off, somewhat convinced that Sherlock's slowed breaths were an indication that the detective was doing the same.

He really should have known better.

"John!" the intense whispering began just as John brushed against unconsciousness.

"Go to sleep." John mumbled in vain.

"This is important!" Sherlock argued, and shook the other man to rouse him, but incongruously kept his voice at a whisper.

"John!" he repeated, and the doctor finally pried one eye open to glare at him.

"What?" he grated.

"Will you fuck me?" Sherlock asked urgently.

"_No_, Sherlock." John groaned.

"But I want you to," Sherlock whined, moving against John's body to clarify. "Why won't you?"

John struggled to keep his voice subdued, and lay still despite Sherlock's attempts. "It's not right. You're high. Back off, calm down, and go to sleep." he ordered.

Sherlock however, was fixated, insistent, and completely ignored the warning tone in John's voice.

"Is it _unethical_, again?" he interrogated critically, slipping his left hand down the front of John's trousers, stopping John from hitting his hand away by holding the doctor's left arm still with his right hand.

John cursed the fact that his position meant that his right hand was trapped beneath his body, limiting his ability to fight back.

"Fuck, Sherlock!" he hissed, locking his thighs together, but too late, and kicking out with his feet.

It was all to no effect, Sherlock completely disregarded his protestations.

"I don't understand how it can be unethical," he pondered aloud. "I am consenting, you are consenting, what more do you need? A note from your mother?"

"_Please_ don't mention my mother when you're trying to jerk me off," John ground out through clenched teeth. "And I'm _not_ consenting, Sherlock, I'm telling you to _fuck off_!" He delivered another kick in the direction of Sherlock's shins, still somehow failing to make contact.

Sherlock responded with a full-mouthed kiss, catching John by surprise and causing him to moan at the dual sensations of Sherlock's busy mouth and persistent hand.

"Hmm." Sherlock mock-contemplated as he broke off the kiss. "I beg to differ in regards to your giving consent," he stated. "You _want_ me," he concluded, much to John's aggravation.

"That's a physio – " he gasped " – logical response, you bastard! Who's not being fair now?"

"Life's not fair, John." Sherlock menaced, baring his teeth predatorily. "When have you ever seen any evidence to the contrary?"

John shivered. The detective was scarily determined, and directing his passionate feelings at John this time, as well as conducting a _very_ cohesive argument, despite the amount of drugs he had taken, and his blatantly unstable mood state.

Besides which, his hand was being...particularly...dexterous at the moment, and it made it hard for John to remember just why he wanted Sherlock to stop.

His breaths were erratic and uncontrollable suddenly, and – ohshitohfuckohgod – "Oh Sherlock!" he shouted abruptly, coming in his pants. _Gross_, he instantly inwardly responded, hating the sensation of the rapidly-cooling sticky substance coating the inside of his clothes.

"Oh John!" Sherlock echoed him in parody, laughing, and John glared. His patience snapped. That was just not cricket.

With a rush of energy not usually available to him so soon after coming, he gave an almighty wrench, freeing himself from Sherlock's grasp, and, now standing at the side of the bed, swung a fist at Sherlock.

"Fucker!" he shouted, unable to think straight.

The solid contact, and the surprised, pained exclamation it caused, simultaneously elicited satisfaction and guilt in John. It wasn't Sherlock, it was the drugs, he reminded himself, and he turned his rage adrenalin energy to kicking off his trousers and pants. Half-naked, he stomped into the bathroom, to piss and clean himself off a little.

He stayed in front of the mirror for a moment, clenching and unclenching his fists as he tried to get his emotions under control.

"Fuck!" he exclaimed again, slamming his hands on the bench in frustration.

A few more deep breaths and he felt like he could face Sherlock again without killing him.

He walked back into the bedroom slightly more calmly now, and pulled a pair of pants out of the dresser, tugging them on briskly, not looking at Sherlock, who was lying still in the bed.

He lay down in a huff, back to Sherlock, and yanked the duvet over himself violently.

It was silent for a moment, then Sherlock spoke, hesitantly, in a tiny voice that John had never heard him use before: "I'm really sorry, John."

John 'hmphed' before he realised it, intending to subject Sherlock to the silent treatment.

"Really, really, really, _really_ sorry, John." Sherlock added, still in that pitiful, lost tone, and John sighed. He was such a sucker. Already, he felt his resolve against Sherlock breaking down.

"I know, Sherlock." he said, exasperated. "We'll talk about this tomorrow." he promised in a no-arguments manner. There was every chance that Sherlock would have a number of blank moments from tonight by the time John woke in the morning and broached the subject, but the least John could do was try.

**TBC**


	3. Chapter 3

**Hmm, the plot ran away from me again, so this chapter is essentially porn more so than conflict resolution. Oops. I'll work on that. **

**This chapter is way longer than the last two. It's un-beta'd, and seriously, it's 6am here and I haven't slept yet...I'll double check it later. Hopefully it's not too atrocious. Please let me know if I've really buggered up the story.**

**I present Chapter Three!**

**xxRegretteRienxx**

The first thing Sherlock was aware of when he woke up was a biting pain, as though in fact, his entire body was somehow wedged inside a vice and some sadistic bastard was squeezing.

Cocaine plus alcohol come-down, he knew it well. Why the fuck had he drunk _as well_ as taking the drugs?

Without getting up, he ran a quick assessment, to check that he really wasn't injured as well beneath all that pain. It was clear. There was a panging emptiness, but Sherlock dismissed that as the lies his body told him to try and get him to feed it more cocaine. He'd had a fix last night, he didn't need more, he informed his cravings.

He felt John wake up behind him, it was easy to detect; a certain alertness overtook the other man's body. Also, there was a distinct change in his pattern of breath, which Sherlock couldn't help but note, considering the way in which John's nose was pressed into the back of his neck, and John's every breath stirred the little hairs there – this tickling sensation in turn stirred something else. But Sherlock didn't have the energy to do anything about his morning erection today. However, he found himself distracted by John's lack of making a move to take care of his own erection, which was brushing lightly against Sherlock's arse. The other man, easily the more affectionate of the two, was typically very tactile of a morning, and – since Sherlock had finally conceded to explain aloud (apparently John had required verbal confirmation as well as the many behavioural indicators) that he was amenable to the concept of the two of them being a couple – had taken to spontaneously engaging Sherlock in some very pleasurable sexual activities in order to sate their morning hard-ons.

Prior to this, when they had just begun sharing the bed, John had usually slipped away to deal with the situation discretely – an amusingly specific thing to feel embarrassment over, Sherlock always considered, taking into account the nature of the activities they had always partaken in together in order to be waking up in the same bed, as well as John's experiences with minimal privacy during his time of service in the army, and finally, the immeasurable amount of exposure to the human body that John was subject to in his role as a doctor. For him to be humiliated by a perfectly natural, unconscious, uncontrollable physical process, was entirely irrational, but lately he had been showing such promise, becoming much more comfortable with his sexual needs and desires, and his current atypical response to it was greatly disruptive to Sherlock, intruding on his thoughts which were otherwise racing, attempting to draw together memories of the previous night – there seemed to be a sizeable gap between his second dose of cocaine and now, suggesting that he had ill-advisedly imbibed some alcohol as well, if not a third hit on top of everything.

When had John come home? Sherlock tried to remember any tell-tale key events which would have occurred upon John's return to the apartment. Had he put the tv on when he walked in? Made dinner? They were unmistakeably in bed together, suggesting that sexual congress had taken place at some point – speaking of which, Sherlock concluded that perhaps some form of misconduct had occurred the previous night, causing John's current limbo of inaction-yet-non-removal.

Sherlock determined to prompt John into action suddenly, deducing that perhaps John required verbal reassurance. That quite often was the case with many people, Sherlock had learned.

"You can fuck me if you want," he stated matter-of-factly, without shifting his position. "I don't mind."

He would have simply initiated physical interaction between them himself, had he not been feeling quite so out of sorts. However, what he'd said was true: if John desired or needed his assistance in dealing with his current condition, Sherlock was not going to be objectionable to participation.

John made no response, but Sherlock undulated slightly against him, and the doctor let out a soft moan, shifting just enough that his hot cock was now pressing against Sherlock's arse, not brushing lightly – this was full contact. His breath was panting against the back of Sherlock's neck, but he was still resisting doing anything more.

Sherlock decided to pursue the passive route, knowing that his subservient behaviour was a massive turn-on for John, not that John would ever openly admit it.

He moaned gently, and rolled his hips over, meaning that he was unfortunately further away from the delicious contact with John, but it did mean that he was more accessible, and he hoped that the new position would entice John towards him.

John moved again, but Sherlock couldn't assess what the action was without looking, until he heard a soft, wet, smacking sound, followed by the hasty insertion of one of John's fingers up his arse. There must have been a considerable amount of desire motivating John, because the act was less gentle than usual, and Sherlock gasped.

It took him barely any time to adjust however, and then he was pushing back, canting against John's hand, encouraging more. John skipped the preamble, didn't bother with ceremony, and a second finger joined the first in Sherlock's arse. Was that a growl John had elicited at the same time with the action? Sherlock couldn't be sure, the sound was an entirely foreign one to be emanating from John's throat.

Besides which, Sherlock was otherwise engaged with being overwhelmed by the sensation of the second finger. This one had caught, had dragged; there was definitely no saliva on it. What was John doing? Sherlock whined, and ground out a question in a search for logic, rationale: "What...John...?" His voice betrayed just how much he was beginning to realise that he was _not_ in control of the situation.

John wasn't going to let Sherlock get any more words out. He hadn't granted Sherlock any leniency, persistently contorting his fingers inside his arse, and the trace of pain from the too-dry penetration just kept him on the other side of being able to relax and welcome John into him in his usual manner.

John must have known it was cruel, could surely detect Sherlock's shortened breaths as he fought to subdue the sensation of pain, to garner some control, and just relax. The less resistance, the less pain. Sherlock knew this, but for once, couldn't summon mind over matter – especially when John leaned forward and sunk his teeth into the flesh of Sherlock's back, and suddenly there were three fingers in Sherlock's arse. He cried out, arched up. He couldn't help it. It wasn't an agonising pain, but it was unrelenting and unexpected.

John was usually the giving one, kind and thoughtful, Sherlock mused, instructing his body again to stop being so foolish and unclench, to allow the passage. It refused to obey. Perhaps his generally unerring muscular control was temporarily diminished in the after-effects of the cocaine and alcohol he'd taken the night before.

_Oh_.

Realisation suddenly dawned. John never like him taking cocaine, barely tolerated his other abuses of drugs, but usually, didn't say anything, just dealt patiently with him during the highs and lows and made sure he didn't get sick. But everyone had a breaking point. Perhaps Sherlock really had done something particularly intolerable last night, something that had broken through John's strong moral reserve. Sherlock wracked his brain with renewed vigour, but the usual clarity of his memory remained obtusely out of reach.

"John..." he groaned. It wasn't entirely pain, because he had initially desired John's attentions, after all, and he was somewhat, surprising to himself, aroused by John's unexpected assertiveness.

His right arm was trapped underneath him and was too awkward to move, due to the combined weights on top of it, so Sherlock worked his left hand between his crotch and the bed. He grasped his cock and rubbed, as best he could, to gain some pleasure. He knew the endorphins would cause him to bliss and unclench.

"Stop that!" John commanded, his first utterance of the day, attempting to grab at Sherlock's hand but primarily managing to trap himself, due to his hand still held fast by Sherlock's arse. He fell clumsily on top of his own arm. It was a ridiculous situation, and he quickly worked his hand out of Sherlock's arse to free himself from the difficult position.

Sherlock exclaimed at the sudden removal of John's fingers, and bucked upwards, trying to regain the contact – grating though it had been – to fix the emptiness.

John grabbed Sherlock's left arm briskly, fiercely, and twisted it up behind his back, holding it there in his right hand, in a no-arguments manner. He grasped Sherlock's hip with his left hand, hard, and Sherlock grumbled and wriggled a little in a vague attempt to escape the bruising grip.

"Shut it, Sherlock." John definitely growled this time, adding a shove to drive his point home. Sherlock stilled, obediently, though his tense posture, gritted teeth and rapid breath clearly indicated that he wanted to be doing the exact opposite.

Despite himself, John felt a dart of affection towards Sherlock for behaving so well – it was a rare occasion. But it wasn't enough.

"You know I'm going to fuck you, Sherlock." he uttered threateningly, and Sherlock shivered.

"Are you – are you going to use lube?" Sherlock whimpered.

"What part of 'shut it' don't you understand, Sherlock?" John demanded angrily, sharply twisting Sherlock's arm upwards. Sherlock cried out desperately, but cut himself off quickly, and didn't voice any further questions.

That was good. John rewarded the behaviour by grabbing Sherlock's cock and giving it a couple of perfunctory tugs.

Even this unaffectionate attention pushed Sherlock closer to the edge, and he groaned pleasurably. John stopped short, wanting to cause Sherlock more suffering, and needing to finally deal with his own persistent desire.

He shifted, transferred Sherlock's trapped arm to his left hand, and reached over to the chest of drawers with his right, and pulled out the small bottle of lube. He positioned himself to be better lined up with Sherlock's arse. He fumbled a little with the bottle, finding it difficult to carry out the fine motor coordination with his non-dominant hand. A splash spilled onto Sherlock's back, however, causing the other man to start, and John flicked the lid closed again. That would be enough. He ran his hand through the small pool of liquid, then wrapped it around his own cock, bringing himself to full arousal again. He didn't bother holding back his groans of pleasure.

Sherlock was being very good, and not fighting back at all now, although his muscles were tensing intermittently. John decided to string out this sense of no threat, of comfort, so he trailed his fingers through the lube on Sherlock's back, and traced a slick line down between his arsecheeks.

Sherlock couldn't easily move in his current position, but he was definitely more open to John now, much more receptive.

John smiled humourlessly. Not for long.

He released Sherlock's trapped arm, and the very next second, in a single fell swoop, he impaled Sherlock on his cock, entering almost balls-deep. Sherlock cried out, shocked, amazed, pained. John held fast, gasping, fighting for control, waiting to adjust to the sensation

Though the thin layer of lube had eased his entry into Sherlock's arse, there wasn't enough applied to ensure a complete lack of pain or friction, especially on Sherlock's part.

Gradually, the pressure subsided to a tolerable level, and John began to thrust, grunting at each jolt of pleasurepain. Sherlock was shoved forward with every rough motion, and barely-subdued breaths were forced out of him in a synchronised accompaniment to the entire exercise.

John realised that he wanted to hear Sherlock scream.

"Speak!" he ordered, none-too-gently slapping Sherlock's arsecheek at the same time.

"Oh, _god_, John!" Sherlock shouted, surprising them both with the intensity of his voice, and John's rhythm stumbled momentarily.

"You'll fucking take it, you bastard." John ground out, loving the tear and the burn that his own actions caused him. The pain would be affecting Sherlock at least tenfold, and the knowledge added to his twisted enjoyment. He began to wonder just how far he would end up taking out this punishment on Sherlock – what point would be too far for the both of them?

"Yes John, yes," Sherlock sobbed out, no joy in his voice, only compliance. He had clearly resigned himself to ride it through, to allow John to take what he wanted. "Fuck...John, oh god, oh fuck, John, why?"

The last word shook John, a shot of lucidity in amongst the array of mindless ramblings that were elicited by physical sensation.

"What. The. Fuck. Sherlock?" John forced out with each thrust, unable and disinclined to stop his motions. He was too close now, and it had taken him so long to get to this point, and he had so much passion that he just had to express.

"Jesus!" he screamed as a climaxed, but his energy level was at such a height now, that the usual post-climactic ebb didn't nearly slow him down.

"The brilliant goddamn genius Sherlock fucking Holmes doesn't know why I would want to fucking pound him first thing in the morning, after he's spent the night before fucking on cocaine?"

Sherlock didn't reply, shaken and frustrated and sore, and beginning to worry about how angry and upset John must be in order to have engaged him in such passionate, enraged, one-sided sex first thing in the morning, as well as to be cursing so vehemently, and expressing himself in such a mixed-up way post-coitus. Whatever Sherlock had done to cause this mood, it must have been bad. He couldn't be allowed to repeat it.

"I'm sorry, John," Sherlock said in a small voice, carefully rolling over. "But...what did I do?" He winced in anticipation of what John's reply would be. But he had to know.

"Oh, why don't you _deduce_ it, Sherlock!" John answered storming out of the bedroom.

**TBC**

**There we go! Darker and darker! I hope I haven't put anyone off reading this – I promise that the next chapter will bring resolution, and things will be happier! **

**Please review, dear readers! Feedback=motivation=more stories!**

**xxRegretteRienxx**


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N: So sorry I took so long in writing this one – I didn't want to be clichéd, and disappoint myself! As a result, this chapter is particularly long. It is un-beta'd, so I would be glad of constructive criticism :)**

**Warnings: As for previous chapters, except additionally, mention of suicidal thoughts.**

**xxRegretteRienxx**

Sherlock lay in bed listening to John move about the flat. There was light swearing as he visited the bathroom, preceded by a strange, choked sound that Sherlock couldn't quite identify without being able to see John's face. It was part frustration, part laughter, but that second element didn't make sense, given John's current mood, so Sherlock dismissed the flawed conclusion.

John inevitably then proceeded to the kitchen, bypassing the bedroom without so much as a glance in. Sherlock waited until he heard the kettle switch on – John would be slightly preoccupied – and then meandered downstairs himself, not bothering to dress. He perched on the armchair and steepled his hands as he continued his efforts to kickstart his brain.

His drug kit was still laid out on the coffee table, he noticed, with a small, self-deprecating huff.

John hadn't seen him come into the living room, but now he turned around with the mug of tea in one hand, and a couple of biscuits in the other. He didn't seem surprised at Sherlock's sudden materialisation, but the groan of exasperation he emitted upon seeing Sherlock had distinctly less of a note of fondness in it than usual.

Sherlock refrained from quirking an eyebrow in response to John's curious behaviour; cautious that excessive analysis would further antagonise the doctor.

"Couldn't be bothered to get dressed?" John asked rhetorically, predictably taking a seat furthest away from Sherlock, from the drugs, from the near-empty bottle of vodka.

Sherlock eyed the vodka warily. He should have just given it away when Mycroft had presented it to him in that ridiculous gift hamper a few months ago in reward for solving yet another of the British government's tedious cases. Why they couldn't run effective screening of their staff was beyond him. But he'd solved the case and been given...this. He wanted to smash the bottle, hurl it out the window, break something, but that truly wouldn't solve anything, and would undoubtedly make a loud noise, which Sherlock didn't think he could handle at the moment.

"You're not dressed, either," he pointed out, unhelpfully.

John sighed. "At least I'm _clothed_, Sherlock." he replied, not even looking in Sherlock's direction.

Interesting. Aside from any other hang-ups, John never had any qualms about seeing another person's body, except in deference to the others' sense of decorum, and since Sherlock had none of this, and John knew it, there was therefore something else, something different in John's perception of nudity. This led Sherlock again to conclude that whatever had upset John last night was of a sexual nature.

"Go on, then," John sighed. "What have you managed to deduce so far? Have you figured out why I could possibly have any problems with your wonderful, flawless self?" There was a distinct undertone of anger in John's words, but Sherlock took the fact that he was still in the flat, still even _talking _to him, as a good sign.

Best to tread carefully, though.

"I took some cocaine last night," Sherlock began, knowing that pointing out the obvious would be perceived as less invasive – it was ridiculous how people attached emotional significance to Sherlock's observations, but nonetheless.

"How _very_ clever of you," John responded, and Sherlock knew that he wasn't just being sardonic about Sherlock's observational skills, but also his decision to imbibe in the chemicals again, despite John's repeated advisements against the habit.

"And drank a significant amount of alcohol." Sherlock continued, not acknowledging John's comment.

"Better and better," John declared. "And what does a combination of cocaine and alcohol do to the human anatomy?" he was being patronising now, and it unnerved Sherlock.

He _had_ to find out what had happened to instigate this behaviour in John. John wasn't bitter, John wasn't needlessly violent, John wasn't uncomfortable and stand-offish when Sherlock decided to go around the flat in the nude – although, he did often recommend clothing during the cooler months, an expression of concern which, in itself, served to warm Sherlock up.

"Poor judgement," Sherlock began to list the symptoms that he was perfectly aware of, "heightened energy, lowered inhibitions, greater tendency toward violent acts or sexual activity," the stiffening of John's posture did not go unnoticed, "increased pulse rate, respiration, perspiration...and complete disregard of others, in favour of meeting their own desires."

John snorted, in a 'you can say that again' manner. "Bravo." he said dispassionately. "What else can you deduce?"

Sherlock's eyes narrowed. "You weren't home until late last night," he noted. "No dinner plates here, or in the kitchen, so you ate out. I...can't remember whether you had a shift at the clinic yesterday," Sherlock said, not meaning for the admission to be so plaintive.

John's eyes darted over, but he disguised his concern efficiently, behind a veil of anger. "Serves you bloody right," he muttered. "Maybe you should continue with the vodka and cocaine cocktails. See how much you can lord it over us mere mortals when you start needing assistance to tie your own shoelaces."

John's words struck Sherlock hard. He feared dementia, feared the loss of dignity, of independence, the slow diminishment of awareness until people couldn't stop the expressions of pity taking over their faces every time they saw you, or thought about you. He didn't want to be reduced to that, couldn't imagine himself so confined.

He struggled to subdue the emotional response, and searched his mind – what clothes had John left in the bedroom? That would say whether he'd been socialising or working...but his memory failed him.

"I was working." John relented, finally.

"Thank you." Sherlock responded in a vehement whisper of relief.

"Working late, so you came in, and saw me with my kit everywhere...I would have wanted you to entertain me, but you would have been uninterested, possibly a combined interest in getting yourself some rest as well as trying to ensure that I hadn't taken too much – "

– _I hadn't_, he refrained from saying; John was unbudgeable on the matter of how safe Sherlock's supply was, or how careful Sherlock was in measuring out doses. John didn't want to hear Sherlock's arguments about the natives of Southern America using coca for years – all of that sort of paled in comparison to the experience of hordes of junkies that filled the clinic every week. Well, maybe 'hordes' was an overstatement, Sherlock conceded, but the amount that John complained about these patients certainly gave the impression of an endless stream. And 'junkies'. Who came up with that ridiculous name? Sherlock was not a junkie. An addict, certainly, but the product Sherlock used was far from being 'junk'.

Sherlock looked up suddenly; he'd been lost in his thoughts a little too long, and John hadn't said anything either.

"So you took me to bed?" Sherlock prodded, and John nodded slowly, rubbing his forehead with a pained expression.

"Please tell me what I did," Sherlock was practically begging now. He had never gone so long without knowledge. It was _agonising_.

John sighed, but didn't elaborate.

"I have no data!" Sherlock shouted, unable to cope with the foreign state anymore.

John glared at him and stomped out of the room.

Sherlock dashed after him before realising what he was doing, and plucked at John's sleeve.

John shook him off abruptly. "Fuck _off_, Sherlock."

They burst back into the bedroom, and Sherlock stamped his foot in frustration, not even caring that he hadn't done that particular temperamental gesture in years. John's movements around the flat were mirroring how very little their conversation was progressing.

The bedroom was providing Sherlock with more evidence, however, and he could now see the full cup of coffee gone cold on the chest of drawers, the pair of John's work trousers on the floor, distinctly rumpled in a manner not merely consistent with being discarded on the floor. Too many creases around the crotch. Additionally, they were stained from ejaculate.

John hated the feeling of ejaculate in his trousers. Sherlock knew this. Therefore, he avoided sexual interaction with John in circumstances where this result was liable to occur – even when he greatly desired sexual interaction in such circumstances.

Well, usually.

Mostly.

Sometimes.

He tried, damn it! It wasn't his fault if he was particularly excitable of late – he didn't usually have anyone around who was willing, interested, _and_ interesting.

John was like a rare, endangered breed, and Sherlock didn't want him to vanish. If that meant a few insignificant sacrifices, then so be it. It was the big sacrifices that really challenged him.

"Did I...touch you last night, John?" he asked hesitantly, not wanting to know the answer, but needing to ask anyway. He had an impulse to block his ears against John's reply, to put on a childish display of avoidance, but a stronger will caused him to lift his gaze to John's face. If he'd done something horrible, he had to find out.

John's face was bitter, unrecognisably ugly, and he continued fidgeting angrily around the room, purportedly getting clothes together for the day, but most inefficiently, most disorganisedly.

"What a very technical term, Sherlock. You see that on police reports all the time, don't you? 'Victim was _touched _by the attacker, before being murdered.' Yes you did touch me last night. And then you jerked me off against my express wishes, and then you decided it would be funny to _imitate_ me when I came!" John slammed a drawer shut, causing Sherlock to jump. "You betrayed my trust on so many levels last night, I can't even begin to think of forgiving you!"

Sherlock quelled the knot of guilt, and murmured the best, worst, and only excuse he could think of. "It wasn't me. I would _never_ do that to you. It was the drugs."

It sounded weak, even to himself, but what he wanted John to understand was that he would never do it while sober. He would never do it deliberately. He needed John to realise just how highly he regarded him.

"Oh, for fuck's sake, Sherlock!" John exclaimed, with zero tolerance for such a blatant dodge of responsibility. "Then the drugs have to go! I don't want to share my bed with them! I want to share my bed, and my days, and my life, with you!"

It wasn't the first declaration of love and commitment John had made in regards to their relationship, but it took Sherlock by surprise anyway. John still wanted to be with him, despite his gigantically monumental and numerous fuck-ups.

"You want me to go to rehab." he concluded with a slightly mournful tone to his words.

"Yes, Sherlock." John agreed. "You don't need the drugs, and I don't want them. Our life would be just vastly improved without them. I think rehab would be a fantastic idea."

Sherlock sat on the edge of the bed; agitated by the information about the prceding night, and anxiously debating between the horrors associated with rehab (which hadn't worked during his previous visits in his youth), and with John leaving, respectively.

"I don't think I can do it." he confessed, and hated himself for sounding so pathetic.

"If you don't do it, you won't be allowed to work on any cases anymore." John explained, stern, but not cruel.

"I know." Sherlock whispered.

"If you don't do it, I'll tell Mycroft that you're using again." John persisted.

"I know." Sherlock repeated. It didn't scare him. It was the punishment he expected, he associated with his habit.

"If you don't do it," John was whispering as well, now, and knelt in front of Sherlock, gently taking his hands and looking him in the eye with a steady gaze. "I will leave. And probably you'll figure out where I am, and probably you'll follow me if I continually move house. But I won't love you with the drugs, Sherlock. I won't be able to. Now which life do you think you can live?"

Sherlock bit his lip and looked down. He couldn't deal with either situation. If he took the therapy, he'd be isolated in a cold, bland, clinic, surrounded by idiotic, plastically friendly and concerned healthcare workers who he hated. He'd be kept away from John, away from his real life, bored, and in horrible pain. And Mycroft would judge him. He always did.

On the other hand, if John left, he wouldn't be able to continue. He might as well kill himself. Take a blissful overdose and vanish out of existence. Escape. But that, too, was no solution, as his actions would undoubtedly cause John pain. People always did mourn the dead, no matter how nasty the deceased had been in life. And John took it hard when a _stranger_ died. How would he respond when it was someone he cared about?

Sherlock couldn't do that to him. He was torn and trapped.

"Sherlock?" John pried gently, using his thumb to sweep away the tears Sherlock hadn't realised he'd shed.

Sherlock grabbed his hands desperately. "I don't want to be away from you," he declared passionately, and kissed John's hard-working hands in a bid for forgiveness.

"Then go to rehab," John repeated, patiently.

"I'll still be away from you!" Sherlock cried. "I'll be all alone and bored and I'll hate it and rehab doesn't even _work_ properly!"

He was shouting, raving, and terrified, because he knew that this meant that John would leave him.

"You've been to rehab before?" John asked, surprised. Of course he hadn't known. He wasn't naturally inclined to the deductive reasoning that Sherlock was, after all.

Sherlock nodded mutely.

"Well, it'll be different now. I'll look after you on your weekends at home. That's got to be healthier than going back to the Holmes residence after a week of therapy!" John chuckled, attempting to finally lighten the mood.

"Weekends at home?" Sherlock asked, sure he'd misheard.

"They didn't have that treatment program when you went before?" John mentally re-allocated the age Sherlock must have been during his first attendance of rehab, but made no comment. "It's been found that contact with loved ones, as long as there is no opportunity to obtain drugs again, can increase the effectiveness of therapy." he explained.

Sherlock rubbed his nose furiously on his wrist, and cleared his throat. "I...wasn't aware of that program." he admitted in a shaky voice. "What else can I do?"

John tried not to think of how horrendous the rehab experience would have been for a much, much younger Sherlock being locked away for months on end with no decent contact with his loved ones – not so much meaning his family, as his various brain stimuli. He climbed onto the bed, and leant Sherlock against his shoulder. "I can visit you during the week during visiting hours, you can call me or I can call you on the room phone, you can have any books you like, and you can have your violin." He stroked Sherlock's bicep gently while listing these features, and the detective seemed to be somewhat calmed.

"Can I take my experiments with me?" Sherlock asked, a more-familiar tone of curiosity returned to his voice.

"No, Sherlock. Of course not!" John couldn't help an affectionate burst of laughter, but Sherlock huffed at the response.

"How tedious."

"But you'll go?" John needed to know for sure.

The silence before Sherlock's answer was endless, and John wished he'd sat in a position where he could see his expression. Not that that would probably help – the man was infinitely talented at disguising his emotions.

Finally, the words that John needed to hear were voiced.

"Yes, John. I'm sorry."

-END-


End file.
